


A Near Routine

by beeinmybonnet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeinmybonnet/pseuds/beeinmybonnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1886. The conclusion of a case and its aftermath; a story in which Holmes can rely on Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Near Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, [LadyLovelace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLovelace/pseuds/LadyLovelace), for the beta; I'm much obliged to you.
> 
> _**Disclaimer:** This is a transformative work of fiction based on Guy Ritchie's adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original works._

Hurrying down an obscure East End street which Watson had never travelled before, but with which Holmes was doubtlessly familiar, and Lestrade's forces not far behind them, Watson exerted himself not to lose sight of Clark Samson's dark form. His right calf blazed in protest to this treatment, but Watson was not prepared to succumb to it.

A strong hand grasped his shoulder and there was hot breath against his ear. "He's going to turn left at the next intersection," Holmes whispered, the words twice as fast as usual. "Run down that alley and you'll intercept him."

Trusting Holmes' knowledge of the maze that was London's road network, Watson dove into the narrow alley to his left. It was even more difficult to half-run in the limited space than it had been out on the street, but when he exited the other end he nigh on collided with Samson's great bulk. Holmes was hot on his heels and he grabbed Watson by the sleeve almost in passing, not even glancing at him. "Excellent; right on time. We'll have him now."

Barely had Holmes finished this sentence when Samson suddenly slowed down his running by half. With a terrible feeling of foreboding, Watson tore his arm away from Holmes and reached for his revolver. It was just in time; when Samson turned around and the unmistakable glint of metal glimmered in his hand, Watson did not hesitate to fire.

The bullet found its way into the blackguard's arm, and with a yell of pain he fell to his knees, pistol hitting the ground with a clatter. Watson kept his revolver raised as he leant heavily on his cane, watching out of the corner of his eye Holmes confiscate the forsaken pistol. He was not able to give his friend his complete attention; not with the monster of a man, whom he still had at gunpoint, in front of his very eyes.

Again the familiar hand fell upon his shoulder, but much gentler this time around. "That's enough, Watson. That is quite enough."

Watson hesitated, eyeing the whimpering mess before him, and then reluctantly lowered his revolver. Holmes gave him a quick pat just as Lestrade and his men caught up with them.

"I see you've got your man," Lestrade remarked when he came to a halt by Holmes, with a furtive glance at the firearm in Watson's hand. Holmes, whose eyes were still bright with alertness, held up Samson's pistol for the inspector to see.

"It was self-defence," he said in a matter-of-fact manner as he handed it over. "If Watson had not fired, the one lying here bleeding would either be a doctor or a consulting detective, and a criminal would still be at large."

"Indeed," Lestrade said. He did not appear to be wholly convinced. "Still, seems to me you've put an awful lot of work into this for a common burglar."

Watson holstered his revolver with more force than was strictly necessary. He wished more than anything to shout at Lestrade to take the vile being to the gallows, but he could not; when Nicholas Grey asked for them to find the burglar, he had made both of them swear that the rape of his sister would not be disclosed.

"You think so? The notion has never even crossed my mind. Come, Watson; I am more than certain Lestrade can handle things on his own from now on; let us hail a cab and head home for Baker Street."

Watson nodded his farewell to Lestrade and followed Holmes out onto the more open roads. They waited there in silence for a cab to pass by; Watson while trying to restrain his outrage, Holmes lost in thought.

By the time they managed to hail a hansom, Watson's anger had cooled down to a sense of despondency and he had regained most of his clarity of mind. It thus worried him when Holmes sat down beside him in the hansom and had still not spoken a word. The frown on his face, his drawn up shoulders, the way he subtly flinched at every sound; all of this spoke volumes to Watson, and only fuelled his concern.

"Holmes." When Holmes did not acknowledge him, Watson repeated his inquiry. "Holmes."

"Hn."

"Holmes, tell me how you solved the case. Tell me how you deduced Clark Samson was the culprit," Watson requested and laid his hand on Holmes' shoulder.

"It was simplicity itself," Holmes muttered, leaning ever so slightly into the touch.

Watson partway agreed with him. Compared to other cases, this one had been relatively simple, if horrendous; he himself had managed to roughly puzzle the pieces together by then. "Tell me anyhow."

"The fact of the matter is that however heinous Samson might be, he is a hopeless burglar," Holmes said and looked up at Watson. "He left traces of himself in all places of the house. A swift examination gave me such a complete profile that all I had to do was to pay a visit to the Hare &amp; Hunt pub and ask for the name of the large, red-haired sailor habitué who always ordered their cheapest stout and smoked even cheaper cigarettes."

There was still quite a bit of the journey left before they reached Baker Street, with Holmes steadily growing worse by the second, and Watson wheedled him into continuing talking with him, grasping for every subject his mind could come up with.

"Holmes," Watson called when his friend's attention strayed for the twelfth time. "Concentrate on me. Focus on me."

Holmes turned his head towards Watson but his lacklustre eyes kept darting hastily without fixing themselves on anything.

"Tell me about— Tell me about tobacco ashes. Tell me about the differences between them."

When they finally reached Baker Street, Holmes was all but exhausted from the ride and could barely sit up straight. Watson had to pay the driver and then physically haul Holmes out of the hansom.

"Come on, old fellow, don't collapse on me just yet," he said as Holmes leaned heavily against his side. His leg started protesting vehemently again. "We're almost home."

"My head. Hurts," Holmes mumbled into Watson's shoulder, his voice muffled but the note of pain in it still quite clear.

"I know." Watson ran a soothing hand over Holmes' hair. "Only one more effort and then you'll be all right."

Half-dragging Holmes up the steps, Watson knocked on the door and then regained his hold of Holmes' arm slung over his shoulders. Between keeping Holmes upright and supporting himself on his cane, he had no hands left to open the door with.

It only took Mrs. Hudson moments to open the door. She cast one look at Holmes, shook her head and stepped aside, letting them in. "Been working himself to half to death again, has he, Doctor?"

"Indeed, he has."

Watson did not wait to doff his outdoor clothes, but made directly for the stairs. He contemplated whether he should lug Holmes up the two flights to his bedroom, or just one to the sitting-room. Seeing that Holmes now rested more than half his weight on him, Watson decided on the latter. The seventeen steps were laborious, but after a lot of effort they made it into the sitting-room.

"There, Holmes; now you're home."

Watson had to untangle himself before he could let go of Holmes, and when he had contrived he whipped off his coat and dropped down into the nearest of the armchairs with a deep-drawn sigh. Holmes in a greater or lesser degree tumbled down onto the floor, where he shakily crawled the two feet to the chair so he could rest himself against Watson's leg. His head lolled on Watson's lap and he let out a small sound of contentment.

With a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Watson closed his eyes and laid his head back against the headrest. Holmes could be infuriating—especially so when he worked so hard, rested so little and ate so scantly that he could not even suppress the intense sensory impressions that constantly plagued him—but there was something which invariably made it impossible for Watson to be whole-heartedly vexed with him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that a fully conscious Holmes would hide his face in shame if Watson would ever refer to his frankly childlike behaviour in these instances; it gave him some much coveted leverage over Holmes, should he need it one day.

Through the floor he could hear Mrs. Hudson clattering in the kitchen, although it was almost drowned out by the crackling of the fire. Holmes' breathing had evened out and he was emitting small sniffing noises that could hardly be attributed to snores, his breath warm on Watson's thigh. Watson ran his hand over Holmes' untamed locks, his affection for his friend slowly spreading through his whole being, shoving all lingering feelings of anger aside. Sinking further into the armchair, he banished the last traces of Samson the blackguard from his mind, and slowly dozed off to sleep as well.


End file.
